


Casseroles

by No_AbsolutelyNot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/No_AbsolutelyNot/pseuds/No_AbsolutelyNot
Summary: Cas is back from the dead but Dean is still having nightmares about watching him die. They troubleshoot trying to get the nightmares to stop.





	Casseroles

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a while ago but it sat and sat in my drafts mostly because I oscillate re: Cas and Dean boning. You can skip that part if you want. There are some pretty ridiculous parts.

_ Cas was alive. _ He was alive, and good as new-- _ really _ \--and back at the bunker. These were things that Dean logically knew, things that he was  _ over the freaking moon _ about. But the thing was, someone had neglected to clue his subconscious in on these facts. So instead of being fine-- _ totally fine, you asshole _ \--he was still having nightmares every night.

The nightmares were all the same: he would watch Cas die, over and over, and be able to do  _ fuck all _ about it. They had started right after-- _ right after _ \--Lucifer had stabbed Cas in the back with an angel blade and Cas had collapsed, wings burnt into the ground. Sometimes the nightmares would mix it up a little, and Dean would see all the other ways Cas had died--oozing black goo, tortured and stabbed, exploding into a million pieces. 

Sometimes the nightmares would show Cas dying in new ways, ways that hadn’t happened. There was one where they would be sitting next to each other on the hood of the Impala, shoulder to shoulder, and Dean would say something and Cas would look at him the way that he always looked at him--with this kind of heart crushing sincerity and unabashed fondness--and then Dean would look down at his lap and when he would look back up Cas’ face would be pale and blood would be seeping out of his mouth and through a gaping wound straight through to his heart. That one really got under his skin for some reason. 

They all feel so real. He wakes up the same: disoriented, forgetting that Cas is alive. He had spent so much time forcing himself to come to grips with the opposite-- _ Cas is dead. He’s dead and he’s not coming back this time and this is going to hurt bad, forever _ \--Dean figured his head just wouldn’t let go of it. Or maybe Cas being alive was some fucked up joke and the carpet would be pulled out from under him at any moment and the truth would be that Cas actually was still dead.

_ No. No, Cas is alive. _

Or maybe it was the guilt.

When you don’t sleep you start to act like an asshole because you’re exhausted. Dean was exhausted for other reasons, but the no sleep thing wasn’t helping. So when hunters started showing up-- _ We heard about what happened to your angel, man. We’re so sorry _ \--and bringing freaking casseroles to the bunker--it was all kind of too much. The fridge was  _ full _ of casseroles. And when the fridge was full, Sam started putting them in one of the bunker’s big industrial freezers-- _ Why do they keep bringing me this stuff, Sam? _ Dean had been polite about it the first half dozen times or so. He’d take the dish, avoid eye contact, swallow, and say thanks. Maybe ask if they needed anything or if they had just come by for this or--whatever. He’d be very careful not to shut the door right in their face. Luckily most of them got it, they wouldn’t stick around or want to chat. But Cesar and Jesse came by-- _ again with the freaking casseroles _ \--and for some reason when they said, “We heard about what happened to Castiel. We’re so sorry.” Dean had said, “We’re hunters. We lose people.” and Cesar-- _ fuck him _ \--had said, “Yes. But this is different, isn’t it?” Dean  _ did _ shut the door in their faces that time, and he threw that  _ freaking casserole _ across the room and it hit the wall with such force that it smashed into about a million pieces. Sam cleaned it up and didn’t say a word, but after that  _ he _ answered the door and took the casseroles.

 

*

 

Now here’s something Dean is not proud of: When Cas showed up-- _ alive. ALIVE _ \--Dean had pulled him in for the tightest hug he’s ever given anyone... But then Dean’s hand fisted in Cas’ trenchcoat and he pulled away from him and hauled off and punched Cas square in the chest and said, “You asshole. I  _ mourned _ you, Cas. Do you understand? They brought me fucking  _ casseroles _ like--”  _ like I was a widow or some fucking thing, _ were the words he abandoned, cutting into his throat.

If Dean’s eyes were red it was because he was angry, not because he was  _ this close _ to crying. And Cas, of course, didn’t even flinch with the punch. He took it like it was nothing--his face looked wounded, but less baffled than Dean thought it would, and he said quietly, “I know. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean had just thrown up his hands, said incredulously, “ _ You know? _ ” and walked off. He should’ve gone back and made up, or whatever, but he just didn’t. Or couldn’t. Either way.

Anyhow, with Cas back now at least there were no more casseroles,  _ thank christ _ . But the nightmares stuck around.

He tried to keep it from Cas, but he found out in probably the most embarrassing way possible. Dean had woken up from a nightmare, in a cold sweat, sitting straight up in bed, chest heaving, with Cas’ name on his lips. But he wasn’t really awake. He was disoriented and not thinking straight, and his heart was pounding and the adrenaline shot him out of bed. So he went stumbling through the dark hallways looking for Cas, alive or dead or whatever. Castiel was sitting quietly reading in the low light of the library when he heard Dean panting and falling into walls and breathing out his name. 

Castiel went to him, alarmed, of course. And as soon as Dean saw Cas he went dead silent and--basically sleepwalking--went right over to him and wrapped his arms around the angel so tightly every bit of him--shoulders to knees--was pressed up against him. Cas very carefully reciprocated, putting his arms around Dean with equal firmness, his broad, warm palms holding him together. He worked to put what was happening together: Dean--still warm with sleep, and maybe still half-asleep. He’s soft, and warm and in just a thin, well-worn, t-shirt and boxers like he’s just out of bed and he’s pressed so, so close to Cas like he would never do awake.  _ Yes, he must still be asleep. _

Cas felt Dean’s muscles shifting beneath his hands. 

“You’re alive,” Dean mumbled wetly, his face pressed between Cas’ neck and shoulder. 

“I am alive,” Cas confirmed, and pressed the palm of his hand against Dean’s shoulder and stroked down his back to ground him. 

They pulled apart, but only enough for Cas to place his other hand to Dean’s jaw.

“Back to bed?” Cas said, half question, half suggestion. Dean nodded shortly, suddenly awake and self-conscious. 

 

*

 

After that, the jig was up. Dean pretty much had to admit that he was having those nightmares and Cas wouldn’t let it go. He wanted to help.

The first thing they tried was a note. Castiel wrote on a plain white notepad the following:

 

_ Castiel is alive. Go back to sleep. _

_ \- C _

 

The note was placed on Dean’s bedside table, right under the lamp--left on--so he would see it as soon as he woke up.

It worked two whole nights in a row. Dean woke up from his nightmare, cold sweat, heart pounding, gasping--as usual--but when the notepad caught his eye, and he read the note in Cas’s own handwriting, he could slow his breathing and calm down. He still had the nightmares, of course, but this way that vice-like panic he felt when he wasn’t sure if things were real or not could be relieved. And that was something.

But one day--how the fuck it happened is anyone’s guess--the note fell down between the bedside table and the bed and was lost. That was almost worse, because when Dean woke up from his nightmare and had the presence of mind to check for the note and  _ it wasn’t there _ \--oh man. That night he was convinced he had imagined the whole freaking thing: the note, Cas writing the note--Cas being alive. He buried his face into his hands, hyperventilating like a goddamn child, feeling insane, and yacked right there--didn’t even make it into the wastebasket.

 

*

 

After that Cas convinced Dean to let him sit in his room. It’s not like Cas hadn’t watched over him while he slept like a million other times, right? They’d do this awkward dance: Dean would get ready for bed, and then wander around the bunker to find Cas and hope that he wasn’t sitting with Sam or something which he usually, invariably, was. So he’d be as casual as he could and stand in a doorway and maybe clear his throat or catch Cas’ eye and incline his head off to the direction of his room. Sam picked up on it of course,  _ the observant bastard _ , so eventually Dean gave it up and would stroll in and all but bark, “Ya comin’?” and Cas would stop whatever he was doing and follow Dean. Sam’s eyebrows would raise like they were headed for the stratosphere. That was it, though. Cas probably told Sam he was watching Dean sleep, but Sam never said anything about it.

When they got to the room Dean would nearly dive under the sheets because it was somehow  _ very _ important that Cas didn’t watch him climb in, so he had to do it quickly  _ before _ Cas would sit down. Dean didn’t actually tell Cas that’s what was going on because he wasn’t sure why it was so important in the first place. It just  _ was _ .

The chair Cas sat in was up against the wall, with a whole stretch of floor and bedside table between him and the bed. A safe distance. He would sit there, very quietly, in his trenchcoat and suit and tie and shoes still on with his hands folded in his lap. He sometimes stretched his legs out and leaned his head against the wall, tilted up a little, like he was sleeping. He wasn’t, though. Dean could tell because he would stare at Cas in the low light: at his soft, closed mouth; at his neck, exposed and throat quietly swallowing; at his chest rising and falling as he breathed a little too fast and shallow; at his hands, soft, strong, still; at his thighs where his hands rested. Dean would fall asleep this way, and Cas would let him--not saying anything.

Cas would only move when Dean started to sweat and twitch and his mouth began to form the words “ _ No. NO! Cas! _ ” Then Cas was at Dean’s side, placing two fingers to his forehead--cooling, calming. Dean would drift back to sleep.

 

*

 

There was still the problem of the nightmares starting at all. It was great--fucking stellar, really--that they had figured out how to pull Dean out of them, to quell the panic. But one night, as Cas came into Dean’s room and Dean was already snug under the covers, he said, pausing halfway to his chair, “What if I sat next to you?”

“What? Like,  _ on the bed _ ?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Dean’s hands, which had been under the covers, shot out to grip and worry the edge of the sheet. 

Cas stayed perfectly still, so as not to spook him.

“Maybe if I’m next to you, you’ll feel-- _ know _ \--that I’m here, and the nightmares won’t come at all.”

There was a seemingly unending silence before, quietly, Dean conceded, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s try that.”

Cas sat, fully clothed-- _ didn’t even take his goddamn shoes off _ \--on top of the sheets next to Dean  _ on his bed _ . Underneath the covers Dean wiggled, turned over on his side so his back was to Cas, and punched his pillow more times than strictly necessary-- _ to fluff it up _ \--and got what passed for comfortable.

 

The room was more quiet than it ever had been.

 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Dean said to Cas’ empty chair, across the room.

“Would it help if I read to you?”

Dean scoffed and nearly choked on his own spit.

“What, like a  _ bedtime story _ ?”

“I could just talk at a low and consistent tone. Like white noise,” Cas said, in exactly the voice that he planned to use.

“What would you say?” Dean did not-- _ did not _ \--shiver.

“What would you like me say?”

 

There was silence again, save for the wet sound of Dean swallowing.

“I don’t know, Cas. You’ve been around a long time. Tell me about something-- _ something good _ in the universe.”

So, Cas did. He described the aurora borealis over Iceland. How he witnessed a star being born. He remembered when the ocean was full of massive, undulating creatures. How clumsy each baby animal is right after it’s born. He recited poetry he recalled from the Neanderthals. 

Dean drifted off to sleep, Cas’ voice still in his ears. 

He slept almost the whole night through before the nightmares started pulling at his brain again. It was only a couple hours until daylight, so when Cas put his hand gently on Dean’s shoulder to steady him in his disturbed sleep, he awoke and stayed that way.

“Almost, man.”

 

*

 

The next night Dean said, “You should probably take your shoes off.”

“Okay.”

“And probably your coat and jacket and tie, too.”

 

Cas did.

 

They got settled just as they had the night before: Dean curled on his side, his back to Cas who sat beside him on top of the sheets, pillows at his back, his legs stretched out, next to Dean. Cas started telling Dean how massive herds of primitive horses looked running over the steppes, but before he could finish Dean turned to face him, and interrupted:

“I saw you die, Cas.”

“I know.”

“No, man, you don’t. I saw you die, right in front of me.  _ Right _ in front of me,” Dean’s voice scraped raw from his throat, and the rest of him crumbled. 

“You were right there-- _ right in front of me _ \--and I couldn’t do  _ anything _ . I could’ve reached out and touched you, but I couldn’t do anything to save you.  _ You died, Cas _ ,” the words clawed their way out of his mouth, fast and wet and near hysterical. He had worked himself up--had kicked away the sheets and sat up, kneeling and sitting back on his feet--eyes wide and green and shining and looking at Cas with an urgent need to be  _ understood _ .

Cas met his gaze with calm, cool blue eyes. He spoke in the gentle, reassuring tone one uses to settle frightened horses:

“But I’m alive now. Right in front of you.”

Dean reached a trembling hand out and touched him then, his palm to Castiel’s chest, right over where the angel blade had punched through. Beneath his shirt Cas was warm and solid and his heart was beating and his chest was rising and falling because  _ he was alive _ . 

Cas put his hand over Dean’s, steadying, warm. That was what reminded Dean to breathe, and as he gasped in a breath he put his free hand to Cas’ jaw, and swung a leg over Cas’ lap, to sit.

There were two movements from Cas: his eyes tracking Dean and never failing to break his gaze, and his mouth falling open just a little. Otherwise he was still--still as stone--beneath Dean.

“I know--I  _ know _ you’re alive,” Dean’s voice was about as steady as his hands were, “But I think--I need to  _ feel _ it.”

It made  _ perfect fucking sense _ as soon as he said it: he logically knew that Cas was alive, but the little instinctual, animal part of his brain--the one with the fight or flight response and ruling his subconscious--hadn’t caught up. He could tell it “ _ Cas is alive _ ” until he was blue in the face but it didn’t mean a  _ fucking thing _ to something rooted in feeling and action.

Dean swallowed, desperate to clarify, “I think I need to  _ feel you _ \--alive.” 

And it and it was like a confessional, or the clouds breaking, the tension draining from Dean’s face, and the look of soft confusion on stoic and still Castiel settled into something sharp, focused.

He was so  _ fast _ , and so  _ strong _ that Dean barely registered how Cas flipped them--how Dean ended up the one with his back pressed into the bed. However he did it, Cas had managed to keep their hands pressed to his chest, so Dean grabbed a fist full of Cas’ shirt and pulled him down to meet his mouth, soft and open.

It was a  _ fucking miracle _ that their clothes made it out in one piece as they grabbed at whatever fabric was closest and tugged to divest each other of shirts and pants and boxers. They came together again, warm skin and hands everywhere: pressed against chests, smoothing over collarbones, gripping on hips, kneading on thighs, holding onto biceps for dear life, skimming over torsos. Their mouths ghosted over the paths their hands took, too, but always-- _ always _ \--found themselves back against each other, sharing hot breath and tongue-- _ god, so much tongue _ \--and whispered words. 

And then, Dean didn’t know  _ how _ he was ready, but he  _ was _ , and Cas was too--pulling away just far enough line himself up between Dean’s legs and slowly-- _ so fucking slowly _ \--pushed himself in. Dean made a sound he was  _ 100% sure _ he would never in a thousand years admit to making, but Cas was there to catch it in his own mouth, and trade it between their tongues, until it was something Dean could swallow. All the while Cas moved his hips in fluid rhythm--smooth, shallow thrusts and then long, deep ones that left Dean pawing at Cas’ back to somehow get him closer, closer.

Cas’ mouth skimmed up Dean’s throat, his cheek resting faintly on Dean’s cheek, his lips brushing at the lobe of Dean’s ear when he said, “How do I feel, Dean?” 

He sounded way, way too smooth, too coherent, for what they were doing,  _ the bastard _ .

It took all Dean had to be able to breathe out, “So-- _ so _ good, Cas.”

“Do I feel alive to you?”

Dean’s hands came away from Cas’ back, to hold Cas’ face so he could look him squarely, heatedly in the eyes. They glinted blue, even in the near-dark.

“Yeah. Yeah you do.” 

Their foreheads met, just for a moment, before Cas claimed a kiss, slow and wet and punctuated by the roll of his hips. They were both gone shortly after that: Cas first, and then Dean--once Cas’ hand joined in stroking him, after his own hand lost the coordination, distracted by how  _ unbelievably hot _ Cas looked.

He could only assume he passed out directly, because when he felt his awareness returning--fuzzy at the edges--they were already clean, sheets too. He thought, obscurely-- _ I don’t think that’s what God intended you to use your grace for _ \--but the words faded out in the gentle fog of his head. 

His senses slowly started to get a grip on things and he could feel himself tucked comfortably under the sheets, curled on his side, his back pressed against the long line of Cas’ leg as he sat--under the sheets, this time--beside him. 

“Cas,” Dean rolled over, “come down here.”

Cas did. He slid down the propped up pillows and rested his head on them and collected Dean close, fitted between his side and arm. Dean let him-- _ just this once, though, I am NOT a cuddler _ .

Sleepy and-- _ fuck, yeah, okay _ \--comfortable, Dean said, “Tell me--tell me something good in the universe, Cas.”

The corner of Cas’ mouth quirked into a fleeting, lopsided smile, and his fingers stroked Dean’s arm, idly. He described how the alps formed, how the Nile river emerged, what the first forest looked like, and he told him about a righteous man with a bright, beautiful soul.

Dean drifted off to sleep. There were no nightmares.

 

*

 

Dean doesn’t write thank you notes for anything-- _ Who even does that any more? No one except grandmas, that’s who _ \--but months later, way after everyone knows Cas is alive, way after what’s even plausibly appropriate, he does write a note to Cesar and Jesse. 

It says:

 

“Thanks for the casserole. It was the best I ever had.”


End file.
